There are forms of violence that never leave bruises, yet they shape who we become more than fists ever could. One of them is the quiet art of deprecation — of putting down what deserves reverence, of dismissing what is worthy, often because it shines too vulnerably, too brightly, too sincerely.
To deprecate something is not merely to disagree with it. It is to strip it of value. To reduce it. To undermine its right to take up space.
We often learn this first within ourselves.
Think back. Perhaps there was a moment you were proud of — a drawing, a question you asked aloud, a truth you tried to speak. But someone laughed. Or frowned. Or looked away. And that small gesture, that passing shrug, taught you to apologize for what made you feel most alive. You learned to say, Oh, it’s nothing. You learned to preface your dreams with disclaimers. You learned to deprecate yourself before anyone else could do it for you.
This is not humility. It is not grace. It is survival. And it is deeply tragic.
Self-deprecation is praised in many cultures as a sign of modesty. But when it becomes instinct — when we cannot receive a compliment without batting it away, when we speak our needs with an apology baked into every syllable — then we are not being modest. We are being erased.
To deprecate is to practice a kind of emotional censorship — whether turned inward or outward. And like all censorship, it seems polite at first. Then it silences too much.
We deprecate what threatens us. That is why the world often deprecates softness — because it cannot control it. Why it deprecates art — because it cannot quantify it. Why it deprecates people who are different — because it cannot predict them.
But if we are not careful, we internalize that logic. We begin to shrink what is sacred, even within ourselves.
The irony is that the most meaningful things in life — love, grief, creativity, curiosity, forgiveness — are all easily mocked. They don’t wear armor. They show up uninvited. They don’t always follow the rules. And so we learn to make them small. We deprecate our longing. We laugh at our ache. We downplay our compassion.
But a life spent deprecating your own aliveness is not a life well-lived. It is a life half-lived.
To resist deprecation — in all its forms — is a quiet act of reclamation. It is to say: My feelings matter, even if they are inconvenient. It is to speak without apology. To hold your joy with both hands and not offer it up for ridicule. To let others see that what you love is not embarrassing — it is beautiful.
And it also means refusing to deprecate others.
It is easy to diminish what we do not understand. But the courageous path is the opposite — to honor what is different. To witness someone’s dream, not with a smirk, but with reverence. To hear a story foreign to your own and say, Tell me more, instead of, That’s ridiculous.
Deprecation is a defense mechanism. But appreciation — honest, open-hearted appreciation — is a healing one.
There will always be critics, both external and internal. You cannot silence them all. But you can choose which voice gets the microphone. You can choose not to laugh at yourself when what you really need is a hand on your back. You can choose not to mock the thing you love before anyone else has the chance. You can choose to speak with reverence, even when the world demands irony.
Not everything is meant to be joked away.
Some things are meant to be stood beside.
So this is your reminder: you are not foolish for wanting more. You are not naïve for feeling deeply. You are not wrong for caring when others detach.
Stop deprecating your light. The world is dim enough.